


Danny Williams and the Case Of The Consulting Detective

by Apetslife



Category: Hawaii 5-0 (2010)/Sherlock (BBC) crossover, Hawaii Five-0 (2010), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crossover, First Time, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-17
Updated: 2011-01-17
Packaged: 2017-10-17 15:40:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/178385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apetslife/pseuds/Apetslife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a serial killer on the loose in Hawaii, and the FBI calls in some international help.  Who better to assist than the Governor's Special Task Force?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Danny Williams and the Case Of The Consulting Detective

Looking back, Danny thinks the whole thing started with the email from the FBI office in Honolulu. Or maybe it was the discovery of the fourth victim, the one who had been found without a left leg, just like the others, dead three weeks and buried in a shallow grave.

No, it was probably the email.

It starts out as a fairly normal Monday. Malasadas and coffee in the car, his morning call with Gracie, his favorite blue tie with the pinstripes. As he parks his car in the lot, he gets that standard Monday-morning tightening of anticipation in his belly.

For all his bitching and moaning, he's never had a job like this one. Never even imagined it, not without going in for SWAT training or maybe advanced hostage negotiation, something that would put him in harm's way and take him away from his family more than he'd been comfortable with. Now he's kind of dreading his annual psych eval, frankly, because the adrenaline rush of this task force is addictive, and he's discharged his piece in the line of duty more in the last three months than he'd done in his entire career previous. Hell, the number's gone up exponentially.

He's even starting to enjoy it when Steve calls him "Danno," for Christ's sake.

Shaking those thoughts out of his head, he grabs his cane, glares at the just-rising sun, and hobbles his way into the office. First in, he thinks; Steve's monster truck and Chin's bike are missing from the lot and Kono's off today, and he flips the lights as he makes his way through, taking a minute to grin down at their fancy floor-logo. Fucking Steve and his bizarre _ohana_ fantasies. Danny thinks he's about three days away from insisting they all get team tattoos or something.

It's all very normal, until he flips on his computer and starts working his way through the weekend backlog.

The FBI email doesn't look too strange at first. He's getting a little tired of getting every other department's drop-off cases, but it doesn't seem like anything out of the ordinary.

Two minutes later, he's on the phone, waking up Steve, hearing him grumble, and then listening to the dial tone as soon as he snaps out the words "serial killer, child victim."

***

Steve looks wrecked in the reflected light from Chin's display table, Danny thinks absently, as they gather around and wait for Chin's briefing on the documents pulled in from the FBI case files. The dark circles under his eyes are even darker than usual, he hasn't shaved, his hair is standing in every possible direction. It's just not fair that even like this, he's gorgeous.

"Hey, you okay?" he asks quietly, nudging his shoulder against Steve's arm, absorbing Steve's startle, waiting patiently.

"Fine," Steve bites out, then ruins it by scrubbing his hand over his face. "Tired," he admits, and Danny feels his eyebrows go up. "I was up late, working on Dad's case. Wasn't exactly expecting to be back here at the crack of dawn, today."

"Welcome to my world, babe," Danny says comfortably, relaxing himself now that he realizes it's just standard Steve-crazy, nothing new or strange. No break-ins or random trauma.

"Oh, right, like you were up until four transcribing audio tapes? Do tell."

"Touch-y," Danny leans back and gives him a look. "No, not transcribing, but I had Grace this weekend, you know. You try sleeping when you've got an excited nine year old in a sleeping bag right next to you. I think I got about four hours of sleep all weekend."

"Ladies," Chin interjects, his all-patience tone, and Danny pays attention. Reluctantly.

"The FBI has been working this particular serial killer case for almost two years," he says, pushing up four images to the big screen. Danny winces. "All women, all raped, killed, and dismembered, each one of them on a different island. No schedule that we can see, no connection between the victims. There was about a year between the first two killings, less than six months to the third, and the last two have been a month apart. Our killer is escalating. And the last victim was fourteen years old."

He puts up a sheet next to the cadaver shots, it looks like case notes. It's depressingly short.

"Four murders, and that's all they got?" Steve sounds both disappointed and annoyed, and Danny can't blame him.

"He's smart." Chin zooms the sheet. "Really smart, really slick. FBI has had three profilers working on this case since the second body was found, and they can't get a feel for him. No DNA, no trace, no video of any of the abductions. They can't even tell how he's snatching them. Or even how he's killing them. Two had no clear sign of death, one was blunt force trauma, one was drowned."

"Why are they all missing their left leg?" Steve wants to know.

"Nobody knows. Nobody knows where the missing legs are. Best bet is that it's a trophy kind of thing."

"Most serial killers keep something small," Danny points out. "Hair, a finger, panties, something small. Not a whole freaking leg. That has to be hard to hide."

"Yeah, well, our guy has figured it out," Chin says, grim. "Analysis on the bodies hasn't come up with any forensics at all, not even on the tools used to remove the leg. They think it's a small saw, electric, circular, but that kind of thing is messy, and it could be one of ten different saws leaving that pattern."

"Let me get this straight," Danny interjects, holding up his hands. "There's some kind of, what, a super-genius serial killer out there? And the FBI can't figure this out, so they're handing it to us? What the hell are we supposed to do that they can't do? _Magic_ some evidence up?"

"I haven't gotten to the best part yet." Chin's voice, if anything, gets even more dry. Dry enough that Danny's eyes open up wide. He knows that voice. That's not a good voice.

"About ten minutes ago, I got a note from the Director at the FBI's field office. They have a consultant coming in on the case. He's some kind of savant, from England, some kind of resource exchange with the British Intelligence Service. Details are light, but he's flying in tonight."

"Wait, what?" Steve's voice is quite a bit higher than normal, and rising. Danny leans back again, out of explosion range.

"We are to, I quote, 'provide all support and assistance to the Special Consultant To The FBI during his investigation of the serial killings, at the request of the governor of Hawaii and the Federal Bureau of Investigations,'" Chin reads, deadpan. He looks up from the table, and Danny's face must be quite a sight, if that little twitch at the corner of his mouth is anything to go by. "Get your driving hats on, guys. We're on babysitting duty."

***

"I don't get it," Danny says, again, leaning against the Camaro, watching the flights come and go from Honolulu International. Steve is propped against the hood, jaw clenched, looking broody. Working that thousand-yard stare that Danny hates so much, so, no surprise there. He'd at least gone home and shaved sometime today. Showered, too, looks like. Smells like. Danny redirects his thoughts firmly. "Since when do we bring in international consultants on domestic serial killer cases? And this guy, Holmes, he's not even Law Enforcement."

"I don't know, Danny," Steve answers, again, not even looking at him. "The governor said it came down from on high."

"See, I told you. Did I not tell you?" Danny pushes off the car and paces back and forth, wincing at the twinge in his knee. He refuses to meet this English super-nerd holding a cane, though, he just will not do it. "I distinctly told you, last week. Steve, I said, you gotta say no to these people when they dump their hard cases on us. It's a simple word. One syllable. Even you could do it if you try. Just give it a shot, I dare you, say after me. 'No, governor, my team is not your buttmonkey. We have work to do, and we would like to do--'"

"Buttmonkey?" Steve side-eyes him, grinning just a little, corner of his mouth waking up the elusive dimple that Danny chases like it's his job.

"Yes. Buttmonkey. Do NOT interrupt me right now." Danny points at him with both of his hands, waits for his nod, and continues. He's on a roll and it feels good. "Once you say that one time, ONE TIME, Steven, we'll stop getting shit dropped on us from all over the island. I swear to god, I open my email and start to duck and cover, these days. And now we're babysitting some of Rachel's countrymen, and let me tell you how much I'm looking forward to hearing that accent all week, by the way, thanks for asking. So say it, so it'll stop."

"No it won't," Steve says, and he's looking at the planes again.

"Are you even listening to me? Don't answer that, just don't. I swear to god, you have a brick where your brain should be. Did they do that to you in the SEALS? Is that, like, a normal procedure for you people? Because sometimes--"

"I think that's our guy," Steve breaks in, and Danny spins to face the Arrivals doors, down the way from the overlook they're parked at.

Yeah, it's probably them. It's February, sure, but nobody else is wearing a full-length coat, and nobody else is wearing a suit, and wait, there are two of them?

"There are two of them?"

"Looks like our guy brought a friend," Steve answers absently, and strides off in that annoyingly direct way to shake hands.

Danny takes a minute just to size things up, walking a little slower to hide his limp. Tall guy, short guy. Short guy is wearing absolutely nothing worth noticing, plain cotton t-shirt, khakis, sneakers, pulling a case. Tall guy is just weird. Skinny to the point of being skeletal, big crazy mop of black hair, the coat, and what looks like a seriously pricey wardrobe under it. Also pulling a case, though his is huge.

He rambles up beside Steve just in time to watch a real grin break out on his partner's face, and watch as he snaps off a salute, returned just as sharply by the short, beige guy, who's grinning now too and isn't nearly as plain as Danny'd thought. Something in the eyes, or maybe the salute.

"Commander McGarret," he says, with that crisp accent that makes everything sound fancy. "It is truly an honor, sir."

"The honor is mine, Lieutenant...Doctor Watson, I should say," Steve says, in his sincere brother-soldier voice, and they drop their salutes and shake hands, clapping each other on the shoulder like they've known each other for years.

Danny glances at the other guy. Tall guy. And nearly takes a step back, because he's got these crazy narrowed angry cat-eyes, and he's pale and all edges and he looks like he'd enjoy taking Steve apart at a molecular level right now.

"If you're QUITE through," he snaps, in just about the most snitty voice Danny's ever heard. Watson rolls his eyes and steps back, waving a hand at him.

"Sherlock, this is Commander McGarret. I never met him in Afghanistan while I was there," Danny blinks at that, this guy was in the war? "--but heard plenty here and there. Commander, this is Sherlock Holmes."

There's a long moment of stillness, Sherlock staring at Watson, and then Watson sighs, and adds, "Sherlock Holmes, Special Consulting Detective to the FBI," and Sherlock nods shortly.

"I'd say it was a pleasure, but I do so hate lying," he says, and that voice should be a crime against man and nature, Danny thinks absently, before he steps up, like usual, to prevent an international incident.

"What am I, chopped liver?" he says, as loud and brassy-Jersey as he can get, shouldering in front of Steve, drawing all eyes, sticking his hand out to a startled Watson, who takes it automatically. "Detective Danny Williams. I'm his partner, God help me," he jerks a thumb at Steve with his free hand. "Welcome to Hawaii."

"Thank you, yes, we're aware," Sherlock says, cut off firmly by Watson, who shoots him a truly evil look, which actually snaps his jaw shut. Danny's starting to think they're going to be sharing babysitting duties, here. "I'm Doctor John Watson. I'm Sherlock's colleague."

"Pleasedtameetcha," Danny grins insincerely at Sherlock, lets go of Watson's hand, and waves them all towards the car, ignoring the beginnings of the headache that are threatening right behind his temples. "Let's get you back to HQ, get you up to speed, and we'll drop you at the hotel right after, okay? Get you all settled. That jet lag has to be a bitch."

The babble has all three of them silent and stunned until they get to the car, he can throw the bags in the trunk, herd them into the seats, and buckle up. He's driving, goddammit. Steve can just sit over there and stew. He's not subjecting any out of towners to the insanity of a Steve McGarret drive, not this soon, anyway.

***

It would have been a strange drive, if Steve and John hadn't spent it all chattering about Afghanistan. Danny's occasional sigh goes totally unnoticed, and in the rear-view mirror, he can see the detective glaring at his smartphone near-obsessively, shoulders up around his ears, looking awfully like Grace in a sulk, for such a tall guy.

By the time they're back to HQ, he is pretty much done with hearing about Kandahar, and some Colonel named Smith who Steve and John had apparently both known quite well. He'd be rolling his eyes, but he figures if they're chatting, it keeps the bitchy tall dude from talking, which will keep Danny from going and getting a ladder, climbing up it, and then punching him, which will prevent charges being filed, which is really for the best.

Sherlock sweeps into the office like he owns the place, glances around like a displaced prince, and points at Danny's office. "I'll take that one. John, I need you," and then he's gone, leaving Danny and Steve and...yes, there's Kono, sitting with Chin, all of them, yes, drop-jawed and stunned silent.

"He's like that," John says, mild voice apologetic as he drags both his and Sherlock's bags past them. He doesn't seem ruffled at all. "It's a bit worse just now, with the jet lag, and I haven't gotten food into him since yesterday. Not that it'll make much of a difference," he adds hastily, "but just so you know."

"Don't worry," Steve jumps in, nodding, like he does this every day, the ass. "That office is fine, right, Danny? You can share mine. Just let us know if you need anything, we'll be here."

"What the--" Chin cuts himself off at Steve's wave. Kono is still doing a great impression of a goldfish. Danny can feel himself get redder. And redder.

"My office," he grits out, but the door closes and he's cut off, just like that.

"Can it, Danno," Steve says, all crisp business as he strides over to Chin. "What you got for me, brah?"

Chin visibly pulls himself together.

"Had to call Kono in to go get some files from the HPD," he explains, and Danny gets the strangest sense of deja vu as they all cluster around the desk again, this time without the big screen. Chin keeps his voice low. "I hate to say it, but this guy's the real deal. Here, look." He fans out page after page of news reports, intelligence reports, police reports, each one declaring the apprehension of a criminal. "He's caught seven serial killers in the last two years. THEY have, those two. They've brought down three international smuggling rings, stopped five kidnaps-for-ransom, and two major art heists. That little haole right there?" There's a picture of a younger, paler John Watson in military uniform on his monitor "He's got three unconfirmed kills in that timeframe. All single shots, all from long distance, none confirmed for sure."

"They can't carry guns in England," Danny protests. It had been one of Rachel's big sticking points, having his piece in the house.

Chin shrugs. "I can only tell you what I'm reading, and I'm reading that these two are legit." He shuffles the papers back together into a neat pile and hands them to Steve. "Sherlock Holmes also has a website. Pretty interesting reading, if you're a detective."

"Send me the link? Oh wait. I can't read it. Because SOMEONE is IN MY OFFICE," Danny glares at Steve.

"They had to work somewhere," Steve points out, mild as milk.

"Put them in the conference room! Put them in your office! Put them on the goddamn sidewalk!"

"Danny, shhhh," Kono says urgently, and tilts her head to make him turn. Sherlock's head pops out and he pins them all with those freaky eyes.

"I need access to a laboratory," he informs them. "At all times. And John needs a gun. Oh!" He brightens up like a kid, and despite everything, Danny almost finds himself grinning back at him, what the hell, "two guns!"

There's a sharp voice from inside Danny's office, and Sherlock's face falls again.

"One gun," he amends, clearly sulking about it, and the door is closed.

"Told you so," Chin says, satisfied with himself, and Danny whaps him upside the head. It's just been that kind of day, so he starts getting his stuff together, and pointedly ignores the way a small chem lab seems to be growing slowly but surely out of his formerly-pristine desk, behind that glass wall.

"He's like an alien or something," Danny tells Steve, after they've dropped the detective and his doctor--with a gun, a REGISTERED gun, after Danny had nearly had hysterics right then and there at the prospect of liberating a revolver from impound and handing it over to an unlicensed handler, he doesn't CARE if John is ex-military, he could be the goddamn second coming of the Lord and that's not happening, Steve--at their very fancy hotel. "He's even freakier than you are, and I never thought I'd say that, my friend."

"He's not that bad."

Danny snorts. "You're just saying that because you've got a big old soldier-crush on his buddy. Don't even go there, babe. We'd never find your body."

Steve turns to stare at him, incredulous. "Do you even hear yourself when you speak? Seriously. Are you listening to yourself right now?"

"What? Yes, yes I do, Steven. I'm just pointing out, in my role as your partner, that you go all googly-eyed and mushy around people with uniforms on--"

"'GOOGLY-EYED?'"

"Don't talk, I'm not done. Yes, googly-eyed. Around soldiers. It's a weakness, but understandable. It also doesn't change the fact that his boyfriend is a great big weirdo, and also more than a little scary, even without a gun."

Steve's jaw is working, now, and his face is actually getting kind of red. Interesting. "Danno, they're on our side. You do realize that, in your crazy little hamster brain, right?"

"I am going to ignore what you just said, because you've had a long day, and you still look tired. I'm dropping you at home, right? I can do that, you can sleep, and I'm sure you'll apologize in the morning." Danny gives Steve his sweetest smile, and is rewarded with a snort and a reluctant little grin.

"We need to be sure we're in early," Steve says. "Need to make sure they're under surveillance while they're here."

"Knew you'd see it my way," Danny says, smugly, and kicks Steve out the door when they get to his place, fighting that gut-deep level to come in, have a beer, hang out, spend time with Steve. Just regular time, not work-time, and he gives himself a good talking-to on the drive back to his little studio.

He doesn't sleep all that well himself, but he's busy. Thinking about their consultants, who are still so mysterious that the only answer they could get out of the Governor was the vague 'International Intelligence Sharing' bullshit. Thinking about their serial killer, who is probably out there stalking his next victim right now. Thinking about Steve, and Steve's obvious love for all things military.

Danny, himself, is non-military. Which wouldn't be a problem, really, except for that time a month ago, when he'd seen Steve making out with some guy with a crew-cut in a bar, down on the North Shore on a night off. Which he hasn't been able to get out of his head, since.

He rolls over, stuffs the pillow over his head, and wills himself to sleep.

***

"This is, very possibly, the worst tea I've ever had," the deep voice startles Danny out of his half-doze, and he blinks himself awake, peering up to see Sherlock Holmes staring down at him, holding a mug in both hands as if he needs the warmth.

"They don't make anything good, here, except sometimes the donuts," he blurts out, and warily watches Sherlock fold himself into the chair beside his own, limbs folding up like a spider's. He's been here since six am after getting an urgent text, and so far Sherlock hasn't said a word to him, and now, tea?

"We had some very fine sushi last night," Sherlock demurs, leaning back, looking both completely strange and totally at home. "But the tea is terrible."

"It's a coffee island. Um. Can I help you with something?"

"Your partner," Sherlock says, in abrupt answer, looking straight at Danny. Danny, years of police work under his belt, just blinks it off. "He's a curious sort of man, don't you think?"

"Steve?" Danny's eyebrows go up incredulously. "Curious? No. Steve is a Navy Seal. His brain has been replaced by a military computer, and somehow salt water got in the gears." He waves at the air. "Huge mess. Short circuits everywhere, you know how it is.

"Interesting theory, but no," Sherlock actually smiles a little at that. "I mean, he's a cipher. Clearly military, that's obvious. Dedicated to physical fitness, has above-average intelligence, is right-handed, and has a mild lactose intolerance. But other than that, there's nothing to see. His clothing is military issue, plain, no sign of personal embellishment besides the rather well-done, but standard, tattoos." Sherlock sips his tea, winces, and cocks his head. "I need to let the data process for a bit, so I'm using Commander McGarret as a distraction."

Danny rubs a hand over his face, straightens his tie, and sits up straight. He's clearly going to need to be awake for this conversation, for as much good as it'll do him. "What's that about a lactose intolerance?"

"It's obvious," Sherlock muses down into his teacup. "You're elementary, of course. But a clue about your partner wouldn't go amiss, just now. A jumping-off point, so to speak. Does he enjoy dancing?"

"I...what do you mean, elementary? I am anything but elementary, pal. I am complex, I got depths." He points a finger at Sherlock, then drops it. Curious, despite himself. "Seriously, what DO you mean?"

"Well, it's obvious, isn't it?" Sherlock sounds bored, now, the bright eyes glancing all over the room. Danny just cannot read this man's tells, yet. "You're divorced, three years ago at least, probably closer to four. From New Jersey, an unwilling relocation for custody. You've been a police officer your entire adult life, you don't date, you spend every other weekend with your daughter Grace, and you don't get on with your ex. Who is British, I believe. You have a mild chronic knee injury in your right leg which you hide poorly. You have a good relationship with your family, you don't make very much money, you've killed multiple times in the line of duty and don't feel particularly bad about it, and you're harboring romantic feelings for your male partner. But that's boring, you wear your thoughts on your face and your history all over you." Another wave of that hand. "McGarret, though. He's a bit of a trick."

"You...I...." Danny is, for the first time in his own memory, speechless. He rubs his face again, then fixes his hair, then huffs out a huge breath that might almost be a laugh. "All right. Okay. I can roll with this. That's pretty fantastic, what you did right there."

Sherlock's face lights up again, that strangely compelling smile holding just a hint of surprise, this time. He isn't the only one who can read faces, Danny comforts himself. "Really?"

"Yes, really. What, you think I'm gonna lie to you? Keep that shit about harboring romance to yourself, though, or we'll throw down, you hear me?"

"Mmmm." Sherlock stares back into his cup. "Tell me about the Commander, and we have a deal."

Which is how Danny ends up telling Sherlock Holmes all about how he ended up in the 5-0 unit over bad tea and stale donuts. It takes about an hour, and he's careful not to give away anything about Steve that isn't public knowledge, but Sherlock nods here and there, tapping his long fingers on the desk of the break room, mind clearly ticking over like a racecar.

"Thank you, Detective, that's very helpful," he finally says when Danny winds down. "A few more pieces of the puzzle, at least."

"Forget Steve. I'm telling you, he's a Navy robot. You making any progress on our perp?" Danny asks. He's a little more awake, now, and this killer is definitely one they need to catch.

"Some," Sherlock says, guardedly. "I think we need to go to the most recent scene where they recovered the body."

"Right, can do," Danny nods. "Where's John, by the way? Thought he was your shadow?"

Something in Sherlock's face softens, might even be called affectionate, if you squinted at it just right. "He was sleeping when I rang you up. Jet lag. I thought it best to let him rest."

"Him and Steve's little love-in last night didn't have anything to do with that, huh?" Danny teases, but Sherlock's expression snaps closed like a door, lights out, and he stands back up.

"I'd best be getting on with it," he states, and whirls, like he's wearing a freaking, a goddamn _cape_ or something, Danny doesn't know, and stalks out of the breakroom like a great big pissy princess.

"Was it something I said?" Danny muses out loud, to nobody at all.

Steve rolls in at nine, looking ridiculously well-rested, and Danny hates him kind of a lot, which lasts until Steve offers him not one, but two cups of Island's Best coffee from the stand by his house. He just breathes in the smell for a long moment, then grins at Steve, making a kissy-face. "You're my favorite," he states fervently, and drinks down an entire cup. "I was right," he adds, when he surfaces again. "Sherlock's even nuttier than you are."

"Why? Did he do something to you? Say anything?" Steve goes all sharp and edgy, like he does, and Danny rolls his eyes.

"No, mom, he did not say anything to me. Well, he did, in a conversational sort of way. Like people have, when they talk to each other, without hanging people over roofs or stabbing them with sharp, pointy sticks? Though with him I wouldn't have been all that surprised. I'm telling you. Very weird guy, that guy."

"Could you please just let that go?"

"Just as soon as you stop worrying about my footwear, babe."

"God, the two of you, it's enough to make me sick," Kono pipes up from where she's appeared behind Steve, like smoke. Danny sometimes imagines that she's actually a ninja, planted here in some elaborate long-term setup. Or maybe they're breeding people like her and Steve somewhere out in the more isolated parts of the islands, some crazy military cloning project. Isn't that a comforting thought.

"Hi Kono. Good morning, Kono. It's lovely to see you, too, Kono," he rattles off, waving his coffee cup at her.

"Hi Danny, hi boss. What's Sherlock up to?" She's peering into Danny's office, clearly curious, and then jumps back when something crashes inside. "Uh oh."

"Uh oh, WHAT?" Danny says, dangerously.

"No, no, I think it was just a test," she reports back, then waves again when Sherlock's face, smudged a little, now, appears at the glass. "Hi, Sherlock! Want some coffee?"

"What is WRONG with her?" Danny mutters at Steve, who shrugs, helplessly.

"She likes him," he whispers back. "Don't ask me, I have no idea."

"Coffee, yes, Kono. That would be fantastic. Black, two sugars, oh, there you are, Commander."

"Call me Steve," Steve offers, amiably enough, though he's focused in on Sherlock like a laser.

"No, I don't think I shall," Sherlock replies absently. "I need John, and we need to get to the crime scene as soon as possible. Am I right in thinking you'll be driving?"

"Okay, how did you do that one?" Danny demands. Steve's driving hadn't even been in the story he'd told Sherlock.

Sherlock shrugs. "It was obvious. Danny, you should change your password, by the way. Your daughter's name and birthdate is really terribly basic."

Danny can feel himself go scarlet under Kono and Steve's twin accusing glares. "It was _backwards!_ The whole thing! And why are you touching my stuff, I told you not to touch my stuff. Especially my computer. What the hell?"

Sherlock tips his head, tisks at him, takes the coffee Kono offers him, and they're off again. He refuses to tell Danny what he's been reading in his computer the whole way to the hotel, too.

***

Danny looks the other way, whistling, as John checks the clip in his borrowed Sig before getting out of the car. He still can't believe Steve talked him into that. But as he and John follow Steve and Sherlock up away from the road into the forest, he's secretly almost glad to have another at least nominally not-crazy person here. Kono is running tech back home, Chin's digging through family interviews again, so it's just the four of them, and he doesn't like his odds for getting out of here without an aneurism.

"So, doc," he pauses to rest his knee, giving up on any pretense when John's eyes flick to his leg and away. "What the hell is a nice guy like you doing in a place like this?"

"Your partner asked me nearly the same thing, you know," John tells him, with a little grin, pausing without comment until Danny gets his leg back under him. "I was in Afghanistan, wounded in action and invalided home to London. I needed a flatmate, met Sherlock, and the rest, well." He tilts a sardonic eyebrow Danny's way. "As you see."

"So you, like me, had a nice, normal life before meeting a total freaking nutjob." Danny nods, satisfied. "I feel you, brother."

"That's one way to put it, I guess," John says. "Sorry, but I'm really not sure why people keep telling me Commander McGarret is insane? He was highly regarded in the field, from what I know."

"Well, he treats Hawaii like it's his own little warzone, now," Danny says grimly. "And we're all his footsoldiers."

"Ah." The light of understanding touches John Watson's face, and he nods as they start walking again. Catching up to Steve and Sherlock, who are like two tall, black-clad crows or something, circling around a little cleared spot between three trees, Steve talking a mile a minute, gesturing the outlines of the crime scene. "Then I do indeed 'feel you, brother.'"

"Thought so," Danny says, satisfied.

Ten minutes later and Danny is sweating right down the back of his collar and shirt, slapping bugs off himself, and watching Sherlock pace around the scene, muttering to himself, hands steepled under his chin. Steve, next to him, seems to be napping, the bastard. John, though, is watching Sherlock.

"He gonna do this for, like, a super-long time?" Danny mutters to John, after Sherlock passes them again.

"Dunno. Could do. It all depends, really."

"Is he making ANY progress at all?" Sherlock had not been forthcoming on the ride over.

"He doesn't like to talk about cases before figuring them out," John answers, just as quietly. Steve watches them, clearly listening, also clearly not chiming in.

"I can't get my mind around this," Danny thumps his head back against the tree, then winces. "Ow. I mean, are we just fucking around here? Is this all bullshit? What the hell is he going to see here that all those Fibbies didn't?"

"Patterns," John answers. "Mostly. Patterns and oh, hang on, here we go."

Sherlock has spun to look at them, eyes wide, nearly rapturous. "Oh. OH! Oh, he's very clever. Very clever indeed, this one."

"Nice," Danny mutters, and scows at Steve when he gets an elbow in the ribs.

"You're idiots. You're all idiots. It's not a serial killer, don't you see?" Sherlock whirls around, stares straight at John. "It's all in the legs, the missing legs! That's it! I can't believe it. Come on, come on, we have to get back to the lab, right away."

"What do you mean it's not a serial killer? Of course it's a serial killer! There are four dead women here," Steve protests, one smooth move and he's on his feet and blocking Sherlock's attempted charge back to the car.

"He's not killing them, idiot. He's TAKING them. They were already dead. Come on, I have to get back to the lab."

"He's insane, you realize this," Danny tells John conversationally, as they struggle down towards the car. "Completely insane."

"Sherlock? Possibly, but he's also almost always right," John tells him, and then they're at the car, and then Steve is driving a whole lot faster than is probably wise, getting them back to HQ.

***

"Oh, EW," Kono says, whole face wrinkling up, and Chin looks just as sick, next to her. Danny feels the same way.

"So, it's not a serial killer," Steve says, slow and careful. "It's...a necrophiliac body snatcher. Really."

"OBVIOUSLY," Sherlock says, hands waving as he lays it out for them in the office. "Look. The bit that was hanging everyone up was how he was getting them, right? How he was snatching them, alive, out from under everyone’s' noses without a single soul the wiser, no struggle or sign of fighting. Well, what if he wasn't snatching them at all, alive? What if he was just waiting for people to die, and then making off with them? Look."

He strides to the board, tapping the big screen with their notes on it. "Four victims. No connection. This one, the first one, they couldn't determine cause of death, but there's a note on her file that she had a history of heart trouble. She drops dead. He happens across her, soon after death. Wraps her in plastic and gets her out of her house, no signs of fibers or trace on her body." He taps the next note. "He'd have to handle her to move her, wouldn't want any marks, they can be identified as pre- or post-mortem on the bodies, and postmortem skin has been known to retain fingerprints. So he only touched her, bare-handed, by the one leg. Tricky, but not impossible, if he's smart. And he's smart. He has it off with her, probably over a few days--"

"Oh Jesus," Danny says faintly, and Sherlock shoots him an annoyed look.

"--and when he's done, off she goes to the forest. Only, he takes the leg with him, so no one can tell she's been moved about after death, handled, all that."

"It does add up," Chin admits, looking like he's eaten something that tastes really, really bad. "But we really can't have someone running around stealing bodies and cutting them up."

"No, of course not, it probably does terrible thing to the tourism trade in this charming little place," Sherlock looks around himself, his face wearing nearly the same expression as Chin's.

"So, how does he do it," John breaks in, leaning towards Sherlock, as alert as Danny's ever seen him.

"That's the really, really clever bit," Sherlock nearly gushes, and Danny cringes, just a little. Nobody notices, he hopes. "You'll be looking for a man who has either had cancer treatments lately, or claims he has done."

"Already checked against the hospital databases," Chin interjects, "No hairs on any of the bodies or at the scenes."

"Right," Sherlock nods, "so, he's lying, then. Probably a youngish man, just discovering his own proclivities. The first would've been a happy accident, a spur of the moment opportunity. Then he realized it was easy, and he was off and running. He'll be in an industry that gets easy access to homes and possibly medical records. I suspect the last one, the blunt force trauma, was probably a hit and run. He would have cleaned all evidence of the accident off her, but someone might have hit her and he just seized his chance." He pauses, cocks his head like nothing so much as a bird. "Or possibly, he hit her," he says, slowly. "I'm not entirely sure, still. But I think not. I don't think he's a murderer."

Steve is rubbing his hands over his face, in what looks a lot like pain. "He waits for people to die, gets there before anyone notices, takes the body, and gets out." He looks up suddenly at Danny. "Home health aides," he says, sharp, and Danny jumps to it, nodding. "They'd have transport and access. Call all the agencies, see if they have anyone hairless--"

"I _have_ done this before, thank you," Danny bitches at him, already going for the phone.

"Kono, take utility companies. Chin, you're on the morgues. Maybe our boy, uh, 'discovered himself' at a previous job." Steve makes a truly icked-out face, and John does, too, and Sherlock just looks confused.

"He's not a serial killer, and they're already dead," he says to John, in a questioning tone. "Why the rush?"

"Oh my God," Danny says, hand over the receiver, staring at John, who is wincing again himself.

"Right, I've got it," John says hastily, herding Sherlock back towards their temporary office by force of will alone, it looks like. "Bit not good, there, Sherlock, you do realize that necrophilia--" he's mercifully cut off by the closing of the door, and then someone at Honolulu Health At Home picks up, and Danny's on.

The next three hours are a crazy mess of phone calls, emails, texts, all lines lit up and Danny's ears are starting to hurt. By the time the chaos dies down it's late afternoon, and as he leans back in his chair and stretches out his arms and shoulders, he catches Steve watching him from across the office. He just reaches up higher, putting on a little show, enjoying the way Steve's eyes cut away after a too-long moment when they're just watching each other.

Christ, it's like the world's longest tease, this whole thing. And the sad thing is, he can't even tell if Steve is doing it on purpose, or if it has any kind of meaning at all.

He and Kono get tapped to bring John back to the hotel for a change and a break--he asks if Sherlock wants to go too, and just gets a blank, uncomprehending look, like he's speaking an alien language or something--and it's a treat to get out of the office and back on the road, away from the phones. It lasts about three minutes, and then his phone is ringing with Steve's special tone, the Top Gun theme song.

"Iceman, speak to me," he says on speaker, and Kono snorts in the back seat, and John just looks confused. There's a silent pause where he can almost see Steve's baffled, blank expression, and can just about time to the millisecond when Steve decides not to ask, and simply soldiers on.

"We've got a possible hit on our perp," he says, and Danny sits up and pays attention. "Fred Smithson, age 26, has been working as a Nurse Assistant at the Honolulu Nurse On Wheels company for the last three years. Boss says he's a quiet kid, keeps to himself, and, get this." Steve's voice goes grim. "He claimed to be undergoing chemo for Lymphoma, but there's no record of anyone with that name in the Cancer Center's files."

"Where is he?" Danny says. "Look, if he did hit that kid, we've gotta move on this, if he's figured out there are better ways to get bodies than just waiting for people to die..."

"Yeah," Steve agrees. "I scrambled Chin but it's gonna take him twenty minutes to get there, you're about a half-mile away from the guy's house."

"Steve, you realize I have a civilian in my car, yes?" Danny stares at the phone, like he can somehow force sane through the wireless signal and into Steve's brain.

"He's an Afghan vet, Danno, he's fine. Just leave him in the car if you want." Steve rattles off the address, promises he's on his way, and then hangs up, without even letting Danny respond.

"'Danno?'" John asks, mildly enough, but Danny just points straight at him.

"No," he growls, and John shrugs and keeps watching the scenery go by.

It's an easy collar, right up until it isn't. There's a bald young man washing his car out by the garage when Danny parks the Camaro outside the address, and he motions Kono to stay back, watch his six, as he ambles up the driveway, projecting 'non-threatening' just as hard as he can.

"Hey, man," he calls out, and Fred's head snaps up, and he watches Danny warily as he gets closer, but doesn't make any moves. Just looks curious, really.

"I just blew a belt in my car," he thumbs back at it, "I was wondering, could you let me use your phone? I got AAA, I gotta call for a tow." He's close enough now to see the shaved bareness of Frank's face, and why is it that no eyebrows is so strange-looking? "I'd really appreciate it," he smiles, and then he's moving, quick arm-grab and twist, the guy's down to his knees and Danny's got him, nice and clean and neat. He holds the wrist with one hand, and reaches for his cuffs with the other.

"Frank Smithson, you're under arrest for a whole lot of things including abuse of a corpse, theft of a body, and illegal entry. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and--"

"GUN," Kono screams, and it's a blur of motion and sound, then, his hand tightening, Frank twisting under him, a report and a savage pain in his thigh, knocking him staggering back. Then two more, so close they're almost one, and he watches as two tiny perfect holes appear in Frank's forehead, boom-boom, right next to each other.

Frank looks completely surprised as he falls, dead before he hits the ground. Danny almost finds it funny, before he's on the ground himself, grabbing his thigh, teeth grinding as the first wave of agony hits him right between the eyes.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," he chants, eyes squeezed shut, hands pressing down and feeling blood welling between his fingers. Non-arterial, his mind helpfully tells him. No spurting. He can hear Kono calling it in as if from a long distance away, calling for a bus, officer down. Then strong hands are rolling him, carefully, and his own hands are pushed away.

"Detective, I need you to look at me." There's a note of command in that voice that pries his eyes open against his will, and John Watson's face is calm, sure, and set with resolve. It's a comfort. "Gunshot wound to the outer right thigh," he says loudly, and Danny can hear Kono repeating it to whoever is on the other end of the call. "Through and through, no major vessels hit. Clean bleed. Here, press down," he tells Danny, and Danny does as he's told, presses down on a pad of cloth that looks like it might be Kono's cardigan, and Watson does the same with another on the underside of his thigh.

Danny blinks, ignores the pain, and finds a smile for Kono's worried face when it appears over John's shoulder. "Flesh wound," he tells her, voice tight. "Just a scratch."

"More or less," John agrees, sounding relieved himself. "Shallow, minimal damage, looks like. It'll be a right bastard in PT, looks like it nicked your outer quad, but other than that, you should be fine. ETA on the ambulance?" he looks at Kono, and Danny remembers, battlefield doctor, and lets himself breathe a little easier.

"Three minutes." Her phone is ringing, and ringing, and she's ignoring it, and Danny gives her a look. "It's the boss," she says, with half a shrug, looking more interested than terrified now that she knows Danny's not going to bleed out in front of her. " _I'm_ not telling him you got shot."

"They do tend to overreact, don't they," John muses, with a little smile for Danny that somehow makes him flush, even though right now it feels like he's leaking all his blood out his leg.

"You know, I got shot, here, yes," he bitches, to cover it up. "A bullet went through my body. AND we have a dead perp--nice shot, by the way, what was that, fifty yards? The two of you, we should enter you in contests or something--which means, you know what? PAPERWORK. Paperwork that I will have to do, because our fearless leader is allergic, I think, and you have to get your surfing time in, and Chin doesn't believe paperwork is part of his job description. OW!" He glares at John, who's pressing harder on the red-stained cloth. "I'm lying in a necrophiliac's driveway, and said necrophiliac is ten feet away, dead, and all you can do is give me lip about Steven McGarret? Seriously?"

"Oh look, there's the bus," Kono says brightly, and goes off to meet the sirens that are getting louder by the minute. Danny sighs and rolls his eyes and tries to shift off his badge where it's pressing into his ass.

"Don't move, I just got the bleeding stopped," John tells him, that sharp command in his voice again, and Danny stops moving.

Talking Steve down off the ledge after he screeches up in his truck and hits them at a dead run is a nice distraction from the horribly painful things the EMTs are doing to his leg, and he walks through the events twice, once for Chin and Steve, once for the HPD guy who's writing up the shooting.

"Stupid, Danny, STUPID," Steve bites out, and he's got Aneurism Face like Danny's never seen before. "You didn't pat him down, didn't even look--"

"Hey, hey, hold on, you just stop right there," Danny interrupts, holding up his free hand, the one that isn't getting poked with an IV needle. "I was cuffing the suspect. What, you want I should start searching them before restraining them? Want I should just knock them out first, read 'em their rights after? What planet are you even on right now?"

"It was a really small-caliber gun. Looks like he had it in his sock," Kono says, and Danny shakes his head at her.

"No, no, don't help. Commander Crazy here is actually questioning my police procedure, which is seriously pissing me off right now. I did it exactly how it goes in the book, Steve. Sometimes shit happens. Deal."

Steve's expression gets even tighter, if possible, and John makes sympathetic eyes at him from a safe distance away, but Danny just keeps on talking, even as he's getting helped up to one foot by the EMTs, who are pushing Steve away from him.

"I'm going with these nice people now, and they're going to do all kinds of painful and invasive things to me, and I'm going to be home by tomorrow morning. Then maybe, maybe we can have this discussion, but right now, I'm somehow just not in the mood." He really can't believe Steve just called him stupid, in front of everyone, with a gunshot wound in his leg. All fond feelings are gone, poof, like that, replaced by a rising tide of anger that is only getting stronger as the pain really sets in. "Don't you even think about it," he glares, as Steve moves as if he'd like to get into the bus with him.

"I'll go," Kono volunteers, and he adores Kono, really does. His life would be so much more simple and wonderful if Rachel hadn't been the amazing exception to his guys-only rule, and if he could just get it on with her, woo her and win her, that would be just fabulous, and whatever they're putting in his IV is really starting to kick in. He can't feel his leg. Hell, he can't feel his _face_.

"I can't feel my face," he tells Kono, and she pats his hand gently. They're moving, he can hear the sirens, but everything's pretty far away.

"I know, Danny. It's the morphine drip."

"Thank you for saving my life," he remembers to say, just before he drifts off into nice soft blackness.

***

Just as John had predicted, he's released nice and early the next morning. He's got five stitches on one side and fourteen on the other, his leg feels like a painful, stiff stick of wood attached to his hip, but he leaves under his own power. Sort of. He's glad for the crutches when he gets through the big glass front doors, and sees Steve McGarret leaning on _his_ Camaro, all cool with his arms crossed, dark shades, the works. Danny snorts, but heads his way, bracing for impact.

Silent, Steve holds the door open for him, with a little flourish, even. Considering it only his due, after getting shot in the line of duty, Danny settles in.

Steve, for once, pulls out of the parking lot at a nice sedate pace. One long arm locked to the steering wheel, staring straight ahead, he really does look kind of like a robot, with that blank, empty look on his face that makes something inside Danny get all twisted up and painful.

"Sherlock and John still okay?" he finally says, when the silence finally gets too heavy to bear. "Nobody killed Sherlock, yet?"

Steve doesn't look away from the road. "They're fine," he clips out. "Sherlock was...upset, hearing about the shooting, but they're fine. I think Chin took them to a museum or something, I'm not sure."

"Nice job babysitting," Danny compliments him, fake as hell and not caring if Steve can tell. "Tell me you at least got the gun back before you cut them loose."

"I got the gun back." Steve takes a deep breath in, blows it out, and explodes. "JESUS CHRIST, DANNY. WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?" He slams his palm four times against the steering wheel.

"I was doing my _job_ , you asshole." It's like Steve, yelling, lets Danny take it down a notch to keep them balanced, and he does, turning in the seat so he can look right at Steve. "I've been hurt worse than this on ops, Steve. I've been hurt worse than this this YEAR. So what has your tighty whities in such a goddamn twisted up knot?" He's genuinely curious.

"I don't..." Steve breaks it off. Shakes his head. "You shouldn't be getting shot out there. That's all."

"Well then, you'd better push my pension schedule up, babe, because this job ain't exactly punching numbers in a padded room. You probably didn't notice, with the stripping and swimming you're constantly doing at the drop of a hat, but we," he points at himself, "we chase bad guys. They sometimes have guns. Sometimes they shoot them at us. It's part of the job, a job that I keep reminding you is YOUR fault, you neander-"

"Stop it. Just. STOP." Steve pounds on the steering wheel again, and it's really weird how he can do that without changing his facial expression at all, and then they're veering sharply across three lanes of traffic and screeching into the scenic overlook parking area, and Danny's wincing and saying "HEL-lo" and clinging to the Jesus strap like it's his only lifeline, which it just might be.

As soon as the car rocks back on its shocks, Steve is unclipping his seat belt and turning to face Danny. Danny smiles agreeably. "Yes, Steven?"

"Danny. Look. We all came to see you last night, right?"

"Thank you from keeping Chin from drawing on my face with Sharpie, is that what you're looking for?"

"Shut up. Stop. Just let me talk, okay?" Steve's got the big puppy eyes on, and Danny nods, and he keeps going. "We came to see you and you were out cold, all hooked up to monitors, and everything. And Sherlock. Sherlock had some interesting things to say--"

"You let him into my HOSPITAL ROOM? Geez, Steve-"

"I'm not done. Not done, okay? Be quiet, for three minutes in your whole life. He was pointing out all kinds of stuff about you, and it was kind of funny at first, and then he said. He said something about you, and me, and I might have kind of lost it, a little."

Danny's frozen, everything but his mouth, clearly, since that's operating without his permission. "I can't believe I slept through this rodeo. Tell me you at least hit him in the face, just once, for that crack about Kono's natural hair color? Once he got all up in your business, please tell me you took the excuse."

"No, Danny, I did not hit him in the face." Steve's looking a little more human, at least, amused and exasperated, but human, not a robot, and the ice in Danny's veins starts to tentatively thaw. Whatever it was that Sherlock had said, it couldn't be that bad. It wouldn't be the end of them, of _this_ , whatever else.

"Did you at least come close? Tell me you came close," Danny begs, if only to keep the tension broken, keep Steve out of dangerous waters.

"I sent him down to meet Max, okay?" Steve's grinning, and it gets wider as Danny hoots with laughter. "He likes forensics, Max likes forensics, it'll be great."

"Oh my god, poor John," Danny laughs, shoving a hand through his hair, hiding his face in his palm.

"And Chin's got it taped on the closed-circuit, waiting for us to watch back at the precinct," Steve goes on, clearly enjoying Danny's mirth. "And nice redirect, by the way, but it ain't that easy, Williams. I got things to say to you."

"Aw, shit." Danny shakes the last of the giggles out of himself, and glances back. "We were doing so good, not talking about it, I thought."

"Yeah, well, I saw you in a hospital bed, Danno. That's not enough for me anymore," Steve sighs, and then shocks ten years off Danny's life, just like that, when he leans across the cupholders, grabs Danny's face in two great big warm hands, and kisses him.

He tastes like too much coffee, and sunscreen, and kind of like how he smells, warm and male and salty, Danny thinks, dazed, before he pulls himself together and kisses back. He's never been an indecisive man, and he's damned if he'll miss this. He throws himself into it, licking into Steve's mouth and swallowing the surprised little sound Steve makes, feeling possessive of even that.

It's better than he'd imagined, when he'd let himself imagine it at all. It's not rushed, or frantic; it's hot and wet and slow, just like how Danny likes it, just perfect. Who knew Steve had moves like this? He gets his hands inside Steve's stupid black t-shirt, strokes up his sides, wants to touch him all over, right now. Which is why when he twists and his leg cramps up, jerking him back in his seat, he _almost_ makes himself ignore it. But he can't, not when it hits him again, and he pulls back, panting, feeling like his fifteen again and necking in the car with Brian Wilcox. Only way older and more beat up.

"Stop, stop," he grits, hand going to his thigh, and Steve gets that look again, and Danny punches him in the shoulder. "Not stop forever, you meathead. Just, can we go somewhere with a couch? Maybe a bed?"

"Your place is right out, then," Steve observes, and Danny smacks him again. "Oh, is this going to be a thing now? Domestic violence, so early in our relationship--ow." He can't stop grinning, though, and Danny gives his bitching exactly as much attention as it deserves.

"Take me home, Steve. Your home," he corrects, "because I got the exterminator coming tomorrow."

"That place is such a shithole," Steve sighs, but he's practically glowing in that repressed, tightassed way he has, and Danny bites his lip against a grin.

"You're absolutely right, which is why I'm looking at apartments next week," he drops casually into the air, looking out the window, hiding his face from Steve, and they swerve a little getting back out into traffic. "I was thinking...something a little closer to the beach, maybe. Grace loves those dolphins."

"She does," Steve says, and Danny can see his reflection nod, and he's smiling ear to ear.


End file.
